Cigarettes, And Other Bad Habits
by Avila Deymene
Summary: It was late September 2008 when someone discovered Harry Potter's proclivity for tobacco. Funnily enough, it was Draco Malfoy that did.
1. K is for Keeping Safe

It's clear to just about everybody that Harry Potter has a strange, completely incomprehensible hero complex. To be honest, it's a wonder the Sorting Hat ever considered putting him in Slytherin on that basis alone. Draco Malfoy knows this better than anybody else – Merlin; he wasted half his teenage life trying to best Potter at his own game.

'I want to help you, Malfoy,' the Gryffindor mutters.

And Draco, full of Slytherin pride and self-preservation, simply smirks (his trademark smirk) and turns to face his would-be-nemesis.

'Sod off Potter; I'm capable of saving myself.'

~.~

K is for Keeping Safe

It was late September 2008 when someone found about Harry Potter's proclivity for tobacco. Funnily enough, it was Draco Malfoy that did.

Even stranger was the notion that Draco Malfoy would want to approach Harry Potter and ask him about it. As it turned out, he was very much in the mood for provoking Potter, which after all, was one of his all-time favourite sports. If he'd cared to notice (which Draco Malfoy rarely ever did), it was the one pastime that had not matured at all, over time.

The raven haired mess called Potter had still retained something of his sanity after the war, as well. He still mustered the effort to do normal, day-to-day tasks like making coffee and throwing sarcastic remarks at Draco Malfoy, in between being the boy-that-lived and suffering through the countless 'thank-you-for-saving-the-world' speeches complete strangers liked to afford him. It was this kind of insanity which drove him to buy a small packet of half-strength cigarettes every now and then, and smoke them all in one hit.

Ginny would most likely have killed him had she found out about his habit.

Draco Malfoy sort of liked the smell of tobacco. It was soothing almost, and blessedly familiar. It reminded him of Astoria and her inclination for the stuff, and their white balcony, smudged with the ashes of five years' worth of cigarettes. He wasn't mundane enough to smoke them himself, though. He thought addictions like Astoria's to nicotine were pointless, and he didn't want to tie himself down to anything more than he had to.

Potter smoked tobacco to escape normality. Malfoy didn't smoke to avoid creating a sense of that very, same thing.

And strangely, their differences on _just about everything_, didn't stop their meeting that day.

'Another death wish, Potter?'

'You say it like it surprises you,' the man in question replied derisively. 'What do you want, Malfoy?'

'To vindicate myself,' the blonde replied nonchalantly, 'by seeing the wizarding worlds' saviour sink to the lung-degrading lows of muggle cigarettes.'

'I'd watch your tongue, Malfoy,' Harry Potter growled, already over his daily stress limit, 'your old fashioned views on muggles aren't tolerated as well as they used to be.'

'So they say,' he agreed flippantly. Draco Malfoy was not too stupid to argue with Harry Potter on a bad day, the insults they threw at each other tended to become far less witty than usual. Generally, it was a waste of his time.

'Why are you here?' Potter began again, not bothering to mask his irritation.

'Buying potion ingredients, Potter. It's what most people do at an apothecary,' he replied, cocking a blonde eyebrow.

'As opposed to what, exactly?' Potter responded, looking down at the cigarette in his hand, and flicking the ash over the cobblestones.

'Well, hiding out the back of one to smoke cigarettes, I suppose,' the slytherin responded derisively. 'Didn't know you had so much free time, Potter.'

'I'm not the one with an office job, Malfoy. What exactly is it you _do_ again?'

'Make life difficult for you, simply by existing,' the blonde replied with a sneer. 'I'm fairly sure that's written into my job description, anyway.'

'Well, you're bloody good at it,' Potter snapped. 'I'll let Kingsley know, maybe then you can get a promotion to _another department_.'

'I'm ever so grateful for your recommendation.'

'Sod off, Malfoy.'

Draco Malfoy bit his lip, hard. Their last argument had been a whole two days ago. Surely Potter's pride and wit had recovered since then? After all, this was their second month having adjoining offices, and even if Potter was predominantly on field work, he should've grown accustomed to the mouthing off.

'Touchy today aren't we Potter? Did someone ask for your hand in marriage again?'

'Jealous, Malfoy?'

'I prefer being the villain, actually. It comes with a lot less responsibility.'

'I hear it also comes with fucking _fantastic_ reputation.'

'That and a distinct lack of human interaction, yes.'

'Well you're bloody lucky for that,' Potter concluded. He stuck the slightly wet end of the cigarette through his lips again and sucked in a large quantity of smoke.

Draco watched, a little transfixed, as the spirals of confetti-like ash fluttered innocently to the ground. The smoke that Potter exhaled rushed into the cold air like the steam from a steam-train, funnelling upwards in a blast of hot air.

Potter slumped back against the brick wall, resting his head against it and closing his eyes. If Draco Malfoy had really considered how Potter was feeling, he would have said it was like _crap_, or something more eloquent than that. Luckily, Draco Malfoy didn't give a damn what Potter was feeling at that moment, and kept barrelling on with his insults blindly, which was unusual for a man who quite usually gave a lot of thought to how his words would be taken.

'Hand me one, Potter. Let me save your lungs a little,' he continued, sliding down the opposite wall of the lane that Potter sat on. It was a very _distasteful_ thought for Draco Malfoy to sit on the ground of a public walkway (albeit a very rarely used one), but he did it anyway, because his family name had already gone to _shit_ now, hadn't it?

'You don't even smoke, Malfoy. Why would I want to waste my packet on you?'

'Who says I don't,' Malfoy challenged, holding his hand out for the little, white cylinder.

'Go buy your own, you bloody beggar,' Potter sneered, ashing all over his white socks again.

'From what I hear, you've got a vault big enough to buy me a lifetime supply,' he blonde replied, not dropping his hand.

'Fuck off,' Potter scoffed, 'you could buy half of Wizarding England with the Malfoy riches.'

'No need to put me on my pedestal,' he replied, smirking at the other man's glare. 'If we're talking about Wizarding England, however, you're the gift that just keeps on giving, Potter. So you may as well give to me.'

'Will you leave me in peace if I do?' Potter snapped, sounding a little more resigned.

'Perhaps,' the blonde smirked as the other man tossed him a cigarette, 'perhaps not.'

'Never trust a Malfoy,' Potter retorted, as Draco lit the end of the flimsy paper with his wand.

'A truer word was never spoken,' he replied, as he inhaled.

The truth was, although passive smoking had been Draco Malfoy's life for the past few years, he had never really smoked one himself. He found, just then, that smoking was unbelievably harsh and a bit unbearable. The heat of the smoke shot through his insides as he inhaled the poison, tickling his throat and singing all the way down his trachea to his lungs. He desperately tried not to cough. Miraculously, he didn't.

Tentatively, he looked down at the rolled up tobacco in his hand. Next time, he would be far less hasty.

Thankfully, Potter was off in his own world, and didn't seem to notice. In fact, if Draco Malfoy had been paying attention, he would have noticed that Potter was rarely ever this quiet, and that something was most definitely afoot.

Fortunately, Draco didn't notice that much at all. He was still preoccupied with his cigarette to notice anything at that moment, really. So Harry Potter moodily shoved the end of his cigarette on the ground and watched it die on the cobblestones. He incendio-d the butt quickly and watched it burn into nothingness on the path, all the while thinking that Draco Malfoy was the annoying, thoughtless prat he had always been.

Draco Malfoy may have been a little older, and a little more aware, but he still _was _a thoughtless prat. He was particularly thoughtless when it came to Harry Potter, because for Draco, Harry Potter was absolutely unbreakable. In a funny sort of way, Harry Potter was the one unchanging thing in Draco Malfoy's life. Because no matter what happened, Harry Potter would wake up tomorrow his arch-nemesis. Secretly, Draco Malfoy loved that continuity.

Potter stood and tossed the remaining packet at Malfoy hastily, after burning the remnants of his cigarette.

'You have them then,' he frowned, 'you've managed to ruin them for me.'

'You're welcome, Potter,' Draco snorted, his lips curling into the familiar smirk they had always worn.

Potter scowled, and with one more withering look, he turned and sauntered down the alleyway beside the apothecary.

Draco quickly put out the cigarette as soon as Potter had turned the corner. He really hated the taste of it, anyway.

~.~

**A.N**: Lola and I are struggling through a mountain of ideas and nowhere to begin for _Two More Months_, so here is my intrem story. A Draco/Harry, something I've never attempted, and am not too sure I'm good at. A challenge, if you will. Just to be clear, the first section of each chapter is in the present, the rest of the chapter after the heading is the past.

I imagine this story to be around four chapters long. Let me know what you make of this.


	2. I is for Inconsistency

'Well, it's not as if you haven't needed _saving _before, is it Draco?'

Draco Malfoy sneered through his shame. It felt much better, that way. With a carefully constructed facial expression he could hide all that insecurity in one hit, and insecurity was not one thing he needed now. He needed conviction.

And Potter needed to get lost. For his own good, if nothing else.

'_Draco?_' he replied, finding his conviction in the slick and aristocratic tone of Lucius Malfoy. 'You're getting far too familiar with me, Potter.'

Potter gritted his teeth, and stared unseeing into the icy, grey eyes.

'I'm Malfoy, remember?'

~.~

I is for Inconsistency

It would be weeks before Draco Malfoy would run into Harry Potter again. In fact, their unfortunate (or was it fortunate?) meeting would present itself to both parties in its usual fashion – completely by surprise. As it turned out, that meeting just happened to be in front of several important ministry officials who Draco would much rather _not piss off_. This of course, meant that Potter and himself had to at least _pretend_ to be civil for the disaster that was the Ministry Christmas Party of 2008.

Draco Malfoy found his antithesis in the maze of colourful canapés, slyly downing firewhisky in a self-refilling goblet. Later, it would strike Draco that this sight was slightly tragic. Like the broken and unneeded hero in the midst of a brilliantly rebuilt world.

He didn't go looking for Potter, he swore to himself. Potter found him, as he usually did, although it was somewhat strange that it was Draco's feet moving, and Potter's that were stationary. To Draco, it seemed that Potter was forever _doing something _wholesome and proactive, and seeing him drink himself into oblivion in the midst of guests, who would gladly have licked his black, shiny shoes, was somewhat disconcerting.

'Please don't recycle your 'death wish' line Malfoy,' Potter greeted him, his worlds blending together slightly.

'Good evening to you too, Potter,' Draco replied stiffly, nodding an eager, canapé-holding waitress onwards. It felt _wrong_ for Potter to be like this. Clearly no one was going to get a half decent conversation out of him tonight, lest of all Malfoy.

Potter said nothing, and simply looked down at his drink with a stoic expression. Draco recognised a lost cause when he saw one, and Potter wasn't doing anything worth watching tonight. Except, perhaps, falling over his own feet, which Draco would much rather watch from a safe distance.

But as he would find out, as the events of the night unfolded before him, Potter was never at a _safe distance_. Or, he was, but somehow Draco's eyes found him without be told to. Found themselves peeling off the wallpaper he was determined to stare at, and drifting over to Potter's location at the back of the room, hidden by the wall-to-wall, sparkly tinsel and being harassed by both important Ministry officials and pushy waiters.

Draco Malfoy wondered how much Harry Potter wanted a cigarette right now, and slid his hand into his suit pocket to enclose his fingers around the half-depleted package. The very same package that Harry Potter had thrown at him, during their last run-in behind the apothecary. The very same package that Draco Malfoy had definitely _not_ smoked.

He was waiting for a fitting moment to give them back to Potter, because really, he had no use for them, and Astoria had wrinkled up her tiny nose at the thought of smoking _that brand_, when he had presented them to her. Because he was largely a thoughtless prat, Draco Malfoy had never really given a thought to how some cigarettes could taste better than others. They all seemed to smell the same to him.

For being so thoughtless, however, Draco Malfoy did recognise a potentially hazardous situation when he saw one, or predicted on, as the case may have been. He didn't necessarily have the gift of divination, rather, the ability to predetermine Potter's irritatingly predictable nature, and keep a rough count of how many drinks the man in question had consumed (which was sort of funny, all things considered; had he really been subconsciously keeping _tabs_ on Potter?).

All things considered, Draco Malfoy had also consumed so little alcohol that he was still able to stand roughly vertical this late into the night, and recognise the Minister for Magic himself striding purposefully towards Potter at that very moment.

Draco Malfoy rarely did anything slightly spontaneous, which was why even his own conscious mind couldn't comprehend its decision to quickly sidle up to Potter, before Kingsley Shaklebolt could hear the liquor-induced bullshit about to spill from Potter's mouth, and interject his own form of damage control before any reputations were irreparably tainted.

(Well, Draco wasn't even sure that was possible for Potter, but he could at least lose his job, if nothing else.)

'Evening, Minister,' he said smoothly over the mumble that spilled out of Potter's mouth. Potter turned slightly to face him, as if to question his authority to speak over the boy-that-lived, but really, at what point in time had Draco Malfoy ever cared about Harry Potter's authority? Perhaps only once, and that was beneficial in getting himself a pardon from Azkaban.

'Evening Mr. Malfoy,' Shaklebolt replied, his smooth and deep voice tinged with annoyance. Perhaps he had wished to get an incoherent Potter on his own, Draco thought. He hoped he hadn't ruined a chance for Potter to get unceremoniously thrown out of the party, because that would have been highly amusing.

'Well, what brings you to this…festive occasion?' asked Potter, grasping suddenly onto Draco's forearm in order to maintain his balance, a move that unfortunately, didn't go unnoticed by Kingsley.

Draco sighed and fought the urge to rub his temples. Potter was usually so keen to avoid human interaction, rather than bring on more of it by asking embarrassingly stupid questions.

'Actually, I happen to be hosting this party, Mr. Potter,' Kingesly said, dry amusement colouring his tone.

Potter's eyes widened a fraction, and through his alcohol induced brain, Draco could see the slight panic written over the boyish face. At least his moral compass wasn't completely rendered useless, the blonde thought, after all, Potter's favourite emotion had always been guilt. His inability to be opportunistic or resourceful at the expense of others was probably why he had ended up on his death bed so many times.

'Right you are, Minister,' Draco forcefully smiled. He rarely ever smiled, and he envisioned the forced version of his least-favourite expression being hardly welcoming. Good. If he repulsed enough people with his display of clearly faked kindness, perhaps he could negate the people-attracting aura Potter seemed to exude.

'It is an excellent party-' Potter began tentatively, tripping over his words.

'-but we really must be going,' Draco interjected, silencing Potter with a quick dig of his fingernails into the underside of Potter's forearm, which still grabbed at his suit jacket for vertical support.

'It would appear that way,' the Minister for Magic commented, raising his eyebrows even higher. If he'd had enough hair to constitute a real hair line, the y may have receded into it. However, being bald as he was, his surprise merely looked comical. 'Good night Mr. Potter,' he added, nodding towards the swaying, incoherent mess on Draco's shoulder. With a nod to Draco, the Minister strode away.

'So where are we going?' Potter slurred, fixing Draco with red-rimmed green eyes.

'I'm going home, Potter,' Draco sighed, detaching his arm from the other's too-strong grip. 'I'm not sure what your plan of action is, but in my opinion it should involve a bed, and somewhere in the vicinity of a powerful hang-over potion.'

~.~


	3. S is for Salvation

For all his efforts, Potter was never exceptionally good at masking his feelings. It was the reason Draco Malfoy was so good at getting stuck into him.

It was Draco Malfoy's ability to get right to the core of Harry Potter's nerve that was unravelling him right now. Draco Malfoy had more to hurt him with that even he knew, and it was twisting and turning inside him like the blade of a knife in his stomach, cutting open his insides and letting them pour out onto the stone floor.

'You can't just leave me like this, _Malfoy_,' he sneers. Really, it's a plea, covered by a sarcastic tone. Harry isn't talking about physically leaving, after all.

It's almost pathetic that Draco Malfoy has to pretend he's talking purely about the physical leaving when he replies. His own voice surprises him with a cold, clinical tone.

'I am.'

~.~

S is for Salvation

Draco Malfoy didn't get much reprieve the night of the Christmas Party. It was only moments after Harry Potter stormed out of the party that he ran into him again. Probably because Harry fell over his own feet more than once in his stupor, but Draco Malfoy just put it down to plain misfortune.

It was clear that Harry Potter was in no state to try apparition, but it appeared that he was going to try anyway, and Draco had to precariously latch onto his forearm to stop him going anywhere. In reality, that put Draco in more danger of being splinched, but then Potter had always been so reckless that maybe his nature had simply begun to rub off on self-preservation driven Draco.

'Let go of me,' Potter mumbled, falling back into the folds of Draco's expensive suit jacket. It was slightly ironic that Potter's actions didn't match his words, especially because in his attempt to push Draco Malfoy away, he was only getting more lost in the folds of fabric that clouded his vision.

He was standing on a slight incline, but Draco was no stranger to the fact that he was slightly more vertically blessed than Harry. He stood at half a head taller, albeit his frame slightly slimmer, but that didn't hinder his ability to literally look down on the raven-haired male. It was one thing that he thanked his blessed father for.

Eventually Harry Potter stopped attempting to disentangle himself, and slouched, forlorn as Draco straightened him out. It seemed that Lady Luck was in no state to help him, and Draco resigned to the fact that he was probably going to have to take time out of his night to apparate Potter home.

If he was really honest with himself, he was quite intrigued about how Potter lived, and was somewhat interested in finding out for himself. While Potter was in his state of nonsensicality, it seemed that that particular moment was the perfect opportunity for Draco Malfoy to quench his curiosity.

'Shall we journey onto your shack then, Potter?' Draco asked, covering his curiosity with a sneer. It had always been his speciality, feigning indifference.

Potter mumbled something incoherent, into Draco's chest, and the latter suddenly became aware of how comfortable he was with his would-be-nemesis standing so intimately close to him. Unnerved, he detached Potter from the suit, and set him straight.

'Well, I'm going to have to know the general vicinity of your house, if you want to get anywhere,' he sighed, digging for an answer from the inebriated man. Although he feared he might be softening up to Potter, at least Draco found comfort in the fact that Potter still managed to irritate him at times such as this. Things couldn't have changed that much, he rationalised privately.

'Grimmauld Place, Islington,' Harry murmured into Draco's shoulder, his eyes closing again.

'I wouldn't have the faintest idea where that is, Potter,' Draco sighed again, because really, it wasn't every day that he was mistaken for a walking road-map. For one thing, he never walked, except inside the walls of his parent's manor, where apparition was strictly forbidden not only by the wards but the geriatric inhabitants.

Harry murmured something into Draco's sleeve and Draco was suddenly aware that people were beginning to spill out from the building and onto the lawn, where they were definitely going to see the strange sight before them and draw their own conspicuous conclusions. So he made a Harry Potter inspired rash decision and apparated into the only part of Islington he really knew: a small, run down square a few blocks from Highbury and Islington tube station, which he couldn't quite remember how he recollected.

Retracting his wand from the pockets of his tailored pants, Draco held it steady in one hand, and attempted to set Harry off him again with the other. Forcibly opening the latter's eyelids he prayed to Merlin that Harry knew his general surroundings.

'How did you know?' Harry slurred again, although this time it sounded a little accusing, and Draco looked over to his left at the street arrows and saw one pointing to his direct right, reading 'Grimmauld Place.'

Draco had possibly heard the name before, somewhere in his memory of the war that has been subconsciously repressed. He went many places in a thick cloak and a mask, inciting terror and the like, and he'd rather not think about all those things now. Lest of all allow Harry bloody Potter to dredge up those memories for him.

'Not sure,' he said brusquely and luckily Harry didn't ask questions, but simply lead him clumsily down Grimmauld Place to his house.

Draco Malfoy wasn't quite sure what he was supposedly doing there, following Harry to his house instead of simply dropping him off and going home to his bed. Somehow it seemed more exciting to go along for the ride, instead of clamouring back into his old routine. He told himself it was that burning curiosity again, rather than anything else.

'Great place you have here, Potter,' he remarked, as Harry stopped outside number twelve on the road.

'I really regret the loss of the Fidelous Charm,' Potter said, surprisingly coherent, 'it would save me so much heartache from your derisive comments.'

'Well, I can't say the structural integrity impresses me,' Draco replied.

'By all means don't come in then,' Potter snapped, but tripped up the stairs.

'I wouldn't, save for the fact that you're about to break your neck,' the blonde replied, and steadied Harry up the stairs and into the house.

Inside was more uninviting than the exterior Draco thought, if that were possible. Harry had obviously made no attempt to redecorate after the sadistic, previous inhabitants, and Draco thought that some alterations are were order. Of course, he voiced those concerns to an almost fully unconscious Harry.

'I wouldn't be so harsh, Draco. After all, if Sirius hadn't meddled, this house would belong to you,' the drunkard replied, and started attempting to ascend the stairs unaided. Of course, he was unsuccessful.

Draco's attention was drawn away from the grotesque wall ornaments of house elf heads at that comment. He had been to this house before, he realised. Once, when he was very young.

'This is the House of Black then, I presume?' he queried, feigning nonchalance. He almost couldn't believe his mother grew up related to the previous inhabitants of this house. For all her faults, Narcissa Malfoy loved finery, and this house seemed to have a distinctive lack of it.

'Indeed it is,' Potter replied with a yawn, 'I think there's even an artist's impression of you somewhere.'

~.~


	4. S is for Sobriety

Draco Malfoy has never _in his life_ been so indecisive. It's also the worst moment in the world to have such an unlikely, indecisive moment, because the mercury is bordering on negative degrees Celsius, and he's certain he'll turn into an ice-block at any second.

But because Harry Potter does strange things to his head for some inexplicable reason, Draco Malfoy's feet are firmly planted to the ground outside Grimmauld Place, and for all intents and purposes, are not going anywhere. It's been a long time since he's seen his arch-nemesis-turn-domestic-leech so desperate to talk to him, and despite his nonchalance in a lot of matters, and his stubborn indecisiveness, he knows that Harry _needs_ him to stay, and not leave indignantly because he can't be arsed arguing.

Draco Malfoy knows that Harry Potter upset, and despite thinking that it's a childish sort of tantrum, he doesn't really want to leave. Besides, Grimmauld place has begun to feel like his home over the few months that he's frequented it's disgustingly decorated halls, and he definitely wants to stick around a little longer in order to rectify the poor taste in interior design.

And Harry. Which is why he needs to make a decision, because realistically, frostbite is the least of his issues.

So gathering his breath, his pride, and everything else he may have require to hold onto his sanity in the throes of illogical romance, he reopens the door and heads back inside to another, inevitable argument.

~.~

S is for Salacious

Harry Potter woke up the morning after the dreaded Christmas Party of 2008, with the headache to end all headaches. In fact, it was so terrible and awful and downright _debilitating_ that he cuddled the toilet bowl for a full twenty-five minutes before crawling into the shower and sitting there for another thirty-five.

He hadn't the faintest idea how, or who brought him home the night before. He had even less of an idea how he managed to fall asleep on the second floor staircase (however, he did wonder whether his sleeping arrangements at the Dursley's had anything to do with his apparent proclivity for stairs). All he was really aware of that morning, was the fact that his head was about to explode into a thousand tiny pieces, and that _thankfully_ Ginny was still in Belfast and therefore missing out on his current state, which he had no doubt she would have chided him for.

After the steam and heat of the shower had made him feel slightly nauseous again, Harry clamoured out of the bathroom, barely bothering to dry himself, and leapt back under the comforting sheets and doona of his bed. He had no powerful hangover potion within his immediate vicinity, so rationally as always, he pulled the pillow over his head and pretended the world simply didn't exist, save for the elephant jumping on his temporal lobe.

Forty-five minutes later, the muggle telephone which Hermione had insisted on installing (ever since the ill-fated, and never to be spoken of fire-call incident) shrilly brought Harry crashing down to reality. His first thought was, that wizards should never own unnecessary muggle items (a toaster, for example, was very necessary because using _incendio_ on toast was about as efficient as using a dragon). His second thought was that Hermione was too efficient for a Saturday morning, but this vanished from his mind when he cast a quick _tempus_, and realised that it was, in fact, no longer morning.

Owing to his clumsy, half hung-over, and half intoxicated state, Harry missed the phone ringing by a full minute and a half. However, he found himself standing in the kitchen all the same, squinting at the bright light that shone through the front window of Grimmauld Place.

A renovation of the Black family manor was sorely necessary, and would have significantly improved its overall appearance and liveability; however it would also mean a whole lot more natural light than Harry had ever been used to. He mused over the pros and cons of redoing the ancient house, while mercilessly cursing the small crack in the dark moss-coloured curtains which allowed the shimmer of sunshine to blind him. In all honesty, he decided that he was quite content living in the quiet, yet dust-filled place. It reminded him of the Order, and his Godfather.

When Ginny had moved in, however, she had begged for a change in aesthetics. One day soon, Harry resigned, everything save for the irremovable portrait of Walburga Black would be scrubbed clean, moved into storage, and replaced by a much cleaner and more practical version. Harry was sure Ginny had taken it upon herself to improve the place from a purely altruistic perspective, however, despite his gratitude; he really would miss the dim lighting which allowed him to wallow in self-pity that morning.

Thinking of Ginny, he sat on one of the old, logged benches which made up the seating for the kitchen table, and sighed. Their relationship had been rather difficult to maintain lately, and although he missed her company, he was sort of relieved that he wasn't currently in the position of being either her confident for her Quidditch woes, or her punching bag for her frustration that he couldn't be as dedicated as some of the other Harpies partners.

Harry, at that moment, decided that thinking of the more intricate problems in his life was probably exacerbating his headache and nausea. Instead, he decided to try and put Ginny into the back of his mind while he made breakfast (in the mysterious absence of Kreacher), called Hermione back, beat himself metaphorically over the head for forgetting about their deal to go Christmas shopping, and then literally beat himself over the head when he forgot to duck to get through the small galley entrance (looking for said house elf).

With Kreacher nowhere to be found, but coming into possession of a hangover potion, Harry first thanked Merlin for alcoholic alchemists, and then set about dressing himself for an outing with his best friend. Satisfied with a crinkled pair of dark navy jeans and a hooded grey jacket, he threw a cloak over the top and ventured out into the chilly, December air.

~.~

Four hours later, and adorned with countless bags of Christmas bounty, which had been thrust into another of Hermione's magical and mystical charmed bags, the pair fell into a couple of bar stools at the Leaky Cauldron.

Stripping his hands of the magically heated gloves Hermione had given him last Christmas; Harry closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, and then focused on what his friend was trying to tell him about present-buying. They had thus far, shopped for nearly the entire Weasley family, including the multiple grandchildren, which would probably be given more knitted garments this year than either of them had ever received in their lifetime. Molly was getting quite creative with her homemade gifts, which was not necessarily a good thing. Victoire had received a knitted, lime green "wand-holder," amongst other things last year, despite the fact that the young girl was only eight.

Hermione was concerned that Ron wouldn't appreciate the new cloak that she had picked out for him, and Harry found himself in the unusual position of having to console his usually perfectly rational and non-materialistic best friend over a perfectly lovely present. Hermione hadn't been quite herself lately, Harry had noted. Quite emotional and strangely irrational in a way…he'd have to note it to Ron when he got the chance. Perhaps Rose was going through another one of her terrible, two-year-old temper phases.

It was whilst Hermione was assessing the merits of a blue lining versus red lining, or the practicalities of having a hood, or no hood, that Harry's bleary memories of the preceding night suddenly had a strike of clarity. The alcohol-induced amnesia was quickly hazed away by the sight of something in Harry's peripheral vision.

Being the surprisingly unobservant saviour of the wizarding world that he was, Harry had almost completely missed the trademark, impeccably styled hair of Draco Malfoy, who was sidled up in a corner of the pub with Blaise Zambini. Draco Malfoy, however, being the observant, self-preserving and conniving individual which he was, had definitely not failed to notice Harry Potter, and was waiting for an opportune moment to send him the look of '_I know what you did last night,'_ which undoubtedly, he knew Harry Potter would despise.

To his credit, Draco Malfoy, even back then, could read Harry Potter very well.

Harry, feeling heat flush to his cheeks and confusion rush to his brain, quickly averted his gaze. What had he said last night? He remembered falling over a lot and drinking far too much firewhisky, and for some reason, he remembered Draco Malfoy being on his front porch with him…and his steps…where Harry had slept…

Utterly confused and equally as horrified, he stared at his hands for a good ten seconds. This did not go unnoticed. Hermione had abruptly changed subject from her rant about buying red items for red-headed people, to genuine concern.

'I think Draco Malfoy let me sleep on my stairs last night,' Harry blurted, wishing he could catch the impromptu words that had just come out of his mouth, and shove them back in.

Hermione, who was far more concerned that Harry had been fraternising with his life-long nemesis, rather than the fact that Harry had experienced an uncomfortable, drunken slumber, asked the obvious question. 'Why was Draco Malfoy in your house, Harry?'

'Err…I think he walked me home last night,' Harry muttered, looking down at his lap again. He realised he was beginning to sound a bit suspect.

Hermione raised one eyebrow. 'How...lovely,' she said, fairly forcefully.

'Well the thing was…' Harry began, trying his hardest to explain to his friend the conditions under which Malfoy had ended up at his house without making himself sound like a raging alcoholic.

Meanwhile, Blaise Zambini was doing his fair share of eyebrow raising, as he observed Draco's manipulative stare make Harry Potter turn into a stuttering mess. 'How does one come into that sort of mind-control, Draco?'

'Sorry. What?' The blonde asked, breaking his gaze across the tavern. Potter's reaction to his look had been exactly as he had expected, and he watched, highly amused, as Harry squirmed in his seat, turned a deep red and evidently tried to explain to Granger the events of the night before. Draco Malfoy had no doubt that he was doing an exceptionally bad job.

'Potter looks awfully uncomfortable, and I can't help but think it's because of you,' Blaise replied, his flippant tone masking his intrigue.

'Naturally, Blaise,' Draco replied, 'if I didn't make the most of every opportunity to make Potter uncomfortable, I wouldn't be doing my job.'

The olive skinned man furrowed his brows and sighed. Sometimes he wondered whether ten years had even passed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> I've developed a love for this story, and have decided it will exceed four chapters and carry on for a slower, and more realistic romance. Thoughts are always appreciated. Thanks for reading :)

Oh, and I've gone back and done a bit of editing on previous chapters. Sorry if this ruins the flow, but I think new readers will appreciate it!


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